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Miss Lydia turned the pages of a large clothbound book filled with etchings of ladies’ fashions. “Nowthisis a wedding gown.” She stared lovingly at a print of a simple white gown with puffed sleeves, a narrow low-cut bodice, and an overlay of delicate leaf-patterned embroidery.
An inexplicable welling of emotion and fatigue swamped Indy’s mind. “How about a compromise, dear ladies? Why don’t you choose three gowns from the fashion plates and I promise to take them into very careful consideration... tomorrow. Now I must retire for the evening.”
“You promise to take them into consideration?” asked Lucy.
“I solemnly swear.”
“Don’t leave just yet. You haven’t had a pastry.” Lucy gestured to a tray piled with pastries and tarts.
Indy’s stomach grumbled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten enough today. That must account for why the sight of the simple, elegant wedding gown had made her feel so queasy.
As she sampled the refreshments, the girls conversed about weddings they’d attended and which bride had been more breathtaking than the others, and which groom more dashing.
Something about discussing her wedding with Raven, even though it was all a huge fabrication, had her craving solitude. Or buttery French pastries.
Pastries would do for the moment. She ate her way around the top layer of the tiered tea tray and proceeded to the next.
Must be all this talk of becoming a bride. For these girls it was the height of their ambition in life. To become a beautiful young bride and marry the most handsome and gallant of gentlemen.
When her own naïve hopes had been ground to dust, she’d vowed never to be defined by her association with a man.
She’d achieve her ambitions alone, and on her own terms.
She’d never be a duchess. She didn’twantto be a duchess.
What a lot of trouble that would be. She was barely upholding the standards of lady-hood. Actually, she wasn’t upholding them at all.
She was far too ambitious and adventurous. She’d never become anyone’s wife and give up her life of daring and freedom.
All the pastries were gone now and most of the tarts. Yet she still had a craving for more treats. “I don’t suppose you ladies keep a bottle of sherry in the music salon?” she asked hopefully, interrupting their sentimental recollections of weddings past.
“Heavens, no,” said Lucy. “You’d have to go Father’s study for sherry.”
India sighed and popped the last flaky pastry into her mouth.
Raven was probably smoking a cheroot and drinking an excellent aged Cognac at the moment. He would be pressing Sir Charles for information about their suspects, conducting important investigations while fanatical ladies on the hunt for wedding details interrogated Indy.
She could have brought her fake moustache, trousers, and Hessian boots to Paris and embarked on her own search for the stone wearing a masculine disguise.
Instead, she was staying in the same house with Raven and pretending to be his fiancée in truth, instead of merely on a meaningless piece of paper.
Chapter 12
“You sly devil, hiding your engagement all these years.” Sir Charles poured Raven another glass of wine. “Are you sure you’re man enough to tame that one? She seems a right spitfire.”
“I’ve no interest in taming her.”
“You like her unpredictability and spirit, eh?”
“It does keep life interesting.”
“I’ll wager it will keep the marriage bed interesting as well,” said Sir Charles with a lascivious wink.
Not going to think about marriage beds. Beds with Indy in them. Beds in general.
Sir Charles had always been one of Raven’s best contacts. As a diplomat he was their eyes and ears in Paris. Charles knew Raven worked for the Foreign Office but he wasn’t privy to the secret nature of his position.
Malcolm had said not to trust Charles, that he’d gone rabid and must be leashed. There was something slightly off about his demeanor. A grayish tinge to his skin as though he’d been indulging in unhealthy nights on the town.
